When You Learn How To Fly
by SunWillRise2340
Summary: This is just the tale of an ordinary gamine, who grew wings, and learnt to fly. Enjolras x OC, T to be safe.
1. Prologue

**March, 1833**

"I love you," she repeats, a tear trickling down her cheek as she stares at his back. "But you're beautiful and perfect and brave, and I'm just a stupid, ugly whore." She chokes back a sob, one hand fisted tight around the skirt of her tatty brown dress. "And I'm sorry for the complications I got you into...but it was the only thing I could think of and..." she trails off dejectedly.

He doesn't move, doesn't turn, as she takes a step backwards, towards the doorway. "I'm sorry," she whispers, suddenly overcome with remorse for burdening him with this extra weight when he's already suffered so much. "I'm so sorry. I'll be going now." With those final words, she slowly trudges out of the garret, down the wooden stairs, out into the cold night air. _What were you even thinking, Victoire? _She scolds herself as the tears start to flow freely now. _Why would he ever reciprocate your feelings? Why would he even want to?_

* * *

**A/N **This is a kind of cross between the book and musical verse, so I'm putting it in the musical just because. Disclaimer: I am not Victor Hugo, so I do not own any of the characters, as much as I would like to.

So, constructive criticism is welcome. Thank you. *Over and Out* SunWillRise2340. (P.s. It's rated T to be safe, for slight sexual hints, and violence and death.)


	2. 1: No Rest For the Wicked

**A/N So, here goes! xx**

* * *

**January, 1832**

"Eponine!" she calls, her bare feet splashing in the puddles as she makes her way towards the forlorn figure huddled away from the rain in a shop doorway. "What are you doing here?"

The brunette looks up at her, and manages a small smile. "Waiting for Monsieur Marius," although her voice is hoarse and her demeanour anything but confident, her eyes shine. "I could ask the same question of you."

Victoire takes in the bruise around the younger girl's eye, and sighs. "Looking for you, what else? Your _mère _is worrying about you."

"Is she now?" Eponine's tone is listless as she pulls Victoire into the doorway next to her.

"Your _père _is out, though, on a job," Victoire adds hastily, correctly surmising that the bruise was a product of the volatile Monsieur Thenardier's fist. "He won't be back until late."

Eponine's face lights up with the news that she wouldn't have to see her father for a while, before falling slightly. "But I have news for Monsieur Marius, though."

"What news?" Victoire asks, out of habit more than actual curiosity.

"You don't want to know," Eponine's mournful expression returns, in complete contrast to the pride in her eyes. Eponine is always pleased when she can prove someone wrong, complete a challenge against all odds.

"I do," Victoire deadpans. "Tell me."

Eponine twists the side of her mouth into a funny expression. "It's about the angel," she says slowly. "The one he thinks he's in love with."

"Oh," Victoire bites her lip, avoiding Eponine's gaze. She was there when Monsieur Marius saw the angel for the first time, clinging onto the arm of her father, her blonde hair long and lustrous, her grey eyes wide and gentle. She also knows of the way Eponine sobbed on her shoulder when Monsieur Marius asked Eponine to find the mysterious girl, the naïve fool. She can't understand why Monsieur Marius doesn't cotton on to the fact that Eponine is blindly in love with him, so infatuated and ready to do anything as long as it will earn her a squeeze of the hand, a pat on the shoulder, or oh joy of joys, a brief hug.

"I've found her," Eponine continues. "But I don't know the name of the house, so I'll have to take him there."

Victoire's hand finds her friend's tiny ones. "You don't have to do this, 'Ponine," she stares earnestly into the younger girl's brown eyes. "You don't."

"But I do," Eponine stares back. "It'll make him happy – and that's the only thing that matters to me." Her gaze slides past Victoire's shoulder, towards the peeling paint of the entrance to the _Café Musain_. "That's them now – tell _Maman _that I'll be home later."

With that, she darts a quick smile at Victoire, then raises her chin and her shoulders and heads out into the drizzling rain, ready to lead her love to another woman. Victoire doesn't think she could ever be as selfless.

* * *

Victoire snatches the coins from the wet cobbles as she hears the echoes of her client's footsteps die away. Counting her money carefully, she crawls to sit with her back against the alley wall, wincing at the ache in her thighs. _That bastard, _she thinks to herself as she stares down at the meagre offering in her palm. _Fifteen sous for the pain he caused me?_ She sighs – at least it's better than nothing – and tucks the money away in the pocket of her raggedy skirt, before reaching up a tentative finger to the split lip and already-bruising eye. Nothing that she hasn't yet endured.

She hoists herself to her feet, stumbling on the uneven stones as she makes her way back down the dark alley, towards the brightly-lit main thoroughfares, hunting for more customers. _No rest for the wicked,_ she thinks, as she joins the rest of the scantily-dressed prostitutes on the street corner, calling out to the passersby.


	3. 2: Why?

**A/N Bear with me, please, I am trying something different in structure with this story. If it gets too confusing, drop me a review to tell me and I'll change it, but I want to see if this will work.**

* * *

**March 1833**

He stares out of the window, his mind whirling. _Why would she say such a thing if it wasn't true?_ He's known her for almost a year now, and, although he's seen her tell some pretty extravagant lies, she's never lied about her feelings before. She's always, _always _worn her heart on her sleeve, just like her friend, Eponine. A bittersweet smile graces his handsome features for a second, before his face drops back into repose.


	4. 3: Separate Lives

**February 1832**

"André Roux, what do you think you're doing?" Victoire hisses, grabbing her younger brother by the ear. He squirms under her tight grip and furious gaze.

"I'm _bored, _Victoire," he protests, shaking his sopping wet hair out of his eyes. "And the washer-women don't really mind – 'Vroche has done it loads of times before, and he says they're just pretending to be angry."

"You're going to catch your death!" she all but screeches in his ear, heedless of the stares of the beggars on the street corner. "It's February, _tu petit malfrat. _Do you want to catch your death of cold, and leave your poor sister all alone?"

"I'm _sorry,_" André pushes his lower lip in a pout and stares up at his sister with big green eyes. "Can I go now? Gavroche promised we were going to climb the plane trees in Les Halles."

Victoire releases him with a sigh, her annoyance at the seven-year-old evaporating as she pushes a sou into his hand. "Go on, then, you ungrateful brat."

"Thank you, 'Toire," André chirps cheerfully, before running off after his little band of _gamins. _Victoire shakes her head at his youthful energy, before pulling her shawl tighter around herself, and walking slowly down the street, towards the Gorbeau tenement, her grimy red hair flowing behind her in the wind.

* * *

He stares around at his cheering _amis_, cheeks flushed and eyes glittering. _That was the best one yet, _he thinks to himself as he jumps off the table, making his way through the dispersing throng of congratulatory students, back towards his quiet corner. _If we keep this up, set the city aflame, they'll have to listen to us._

He slides back into his seat, pulls his half-finished pamphlet towards him, and picks up his pen again, flipping through the pages of his dog-eared, much loved copy of Jean-Jacques Rousseau's Discourse on Inequality that is only partly visible in the sputtering candlelight. If he can just get this done, he can rendezvous with Feuilly to discuss any artwork, before sending it off to the printers, so Pontmercy and himself can distribute it before too long.

He chews on the inside of his cheek for a second, lost in thought, before lowering the pen and letting the disorganised mess of thoughts in his head flow down onto the smooth creamy paper.


	5. 4: Money in the Wind

**A/N This chapter...the first bit is why this story is rated T. Okay, I hope you like! Reviews are appreciated!**

* * *

**Still February 1832**

"Victoire Éléonore Roux!" the scandalised female voice, a voice Victoire recognises all too well, rings out down the alleyway.

"_Mon Dieu_, Émilie, go away!" she hisses loudly as she pulls her oblivious client closer, planting a kiss on his neck as he pushes her up against a wall, moving aside her raggedy skirts with an eager hand.

She hears her sister's footsteps turn away, as the man moans, pressing against her so hard she can barely breathe. _It's the way to get money for André and the Jondrettes; _she reminds herself, shutting her eyes and turning her head away so she cannot smell the foul stink of her customer's breath laced with the pungent odour of alcohol, pretending she cannot feel his hands knotted in her tangled hair, his scraggly beard against her neck.

Finally, it is over, and he steps away, letting her skirts fall down as he buttons up his trousers, fumbling in his pocket for the money. "Here," he says shortly, as he hands her a two-franc piece – an extravagant sum. He must be feeling generous.

"Thank you, _monsieur,_" she says in a breathy voice as he walks away, trying to ignore the trembling in her legs. She rakes a hand through her hair, trying to straighten it out. "Oh, thank you." She sucks in a deep breath, and allows herself to lean her head against the wall in a moment of weakness, before tucking the money away in a pouch in her belt. It is enough to feed her for at least three days, her and André both, for that matter, if she is careful.

She straightens her skirt and filthy bodice, picking up her discarded shawl and pads back along the alleyway, intending to go and find André, maybe buy some bread for him and his little friends. But, of course, Émilie is waiting at the entrance to the alley, holding her little daughter's hand tightly as she glares at her waiflike sister.

"How dare you!" her roughly calloused hand clamps around Victoire's bare arm as soon as the younger girl appears. "I intend to take a short-cut home from the bakers, and I find my little sister with some man, up against a wall. _Mon Dieu, _Victoire, I have Angelique with me! Do you even think what lies I had to make up to answer her questions?"

Émilie's tirade after having to deal with a customer, along with being Eponine's shoulder to cry on and trying to provide for André – the weights on Victoire's skinny shoulders have been stacking up, and with a clatter they fall off in a burst of fury. "If you were the one starving on the streets, then I'd think that you would be whoring for a living," she spits at the older woman, taking no heed of the trembling five-year-old clinging onto her skirts. "If you were on the streets…" she laughs harshly. "But you're not, are you? You're married to your precious Georges, with your two precious children – how could you even begin to realise how your two siblings live? Starving and dirty, having to turn to selling ourselves or stealing! And what do you care, _Madame _High-and-Mighty! I'll tell you – nothing! You don't care at all!" With this, Victoire bursts into tears of anger and turns away, yanking her shawl and marching down the cold, paved street, hearing her sister yelling after her.

* * *

"Have you…?" Enjolras asks his friend as the black-haired man appears from inside the ratty-looking printers.

"Fifty copies," Courfeyrac smiles, placing a paper-wrapped package in the expectant, outstretched hand. "Feuilly got rid of the name on your writing, though – and wait until you see the illustration; it's spectacular."

"I am very thankful that Feuilly can make use of his fan-painting skills on our pamphlets," Enjolras says as the two men start to walk down the end of the street. "The poor wretches who cannot read will be able to understand our cause through the pictorial representations."

"It was a good idea of his," Courfeyrac agrees. "But I do worry, sometimes, as he works a full day at his fans, and has to draw these well into the night."

Enjolras shrugs. "He is dedicated, as we all are, _mon ami._" As they turn onto the Place Saint-Michel, Enjolras' piercing blue eyes take in the ragged beggars sitting around, under the overhangs of houses, or in the shop doorways, huddling against the icy wind.

"The poor devils," Courfeyrac mutters, fishing in his pocket for his wallet. Enjolras quickly does the same, retrieving the leather pocketbook from the inside of his greatcoat and pulling out several twenty-franc notes and a few coins. He follows Courfeyrac towards a little girl, sitting against a wall with her scrawny legs drawn up to her chest, and dirt smeared all over her face. Courfeyrac bends down towards her, holding out a five-franc coin. "A little present for you, _mademoiselle,_" he says in a cheerful voice. The girl's eyes widen as she stares at him; her hand makes an involuntary movement towards the coin. Courfeyrac takes her hand, and places the coin in it. "Go and get yourself something to eat," he says kindly. Enjolras smiles at his friend – he's always been good with children. The other blames it on the fact that he grew up the eldest of six siblings, but Enjolras believes that it's one of the many gifts God bestowed upon his friend.

Lost in his own thoughts, Enjolras doesn't notice the _gamine_ until she's barrelled into him, sending him staggering backwards. A flurry of embarrassed apologies follows, the girl's cheeks as red as her hair as she moves backwards. He notes the tearstains on her cheeks and the stiff way in which she carries herself as she bends forward to pick up the money he dropped.

"Keep it," he says as she tries to hand it back to him.

"What?" Disbelief is etched all over her face, causes her to lose all pretence of manners. "You cannot be serious, _monsieur, _please, take it back."

Courfeyrac watches with amusement as Enjolras folds his arms behind his back so the _gamine _cannot give back the money. "No, _mademoiselle, _it's yours," he insists, turning away. "Keep it."

With that, he walks away, taking Courfeyrac by the coat-sleeve as he passes, leaving the stunned girl in the middle of the road, still holding the fistful of notes and coins. "That was a generous thing to do," Courfeyrac says as the two students enter the Café Musain together.

"She needed it more than I did," Enjolras counters brusquely as they make their way towards the backroom.


	6. 5: Who was He?

**A/N I really like this chapter. Enjoy! xx**

* * *

Victoire bursts into the Gorbeau tenement and flings herself up the stairs, knocking loudly on the rotting wooden door to the Jondrettes' garret. Eponine opens it sleepily, her dark hair messed up and her chemise falling down one skinny shoulder. "What is it, Victoire?" she yawns, displaying her yellowing teeth before she steps aside to let her friend into the squalor in which her family lives.

"I'm rich!" Victoire sits down on the straw mattress of one of the truckle beds, next to Eponine. The garret is empty – thank God – if that weasel Monsieur Jondrette were here, he'd try to con Victoire out of all her money.

"What?" Eponine shakes off her sleepiness, widens her large brown eyes as she stares at the older girl.

"Some decent cove dropped all this money, and when I went to pick it up, said I could keep it!" Victoire can barely contain her excitement as she shows Eponine the money in her pouch.

"Who was he?" Eponine seems astonished – she runs her hands through her tangled hair.

"This is the thing – _I don't know_!" Victoire says. "And I know just about everyone in this part of the city!"

"Describe him," Eponine instructs, looking much more awake, and happy for her friend's good fortune.

"Tall, blonde…angelically handsome," Victoire blushes as she remembers this last detail. "Was standing with a shorter, dark haired man who was giving some money to Gabrielle – you know, the girl that follows Gavroche around."

Eponine's expression is pensive for a few seconds, before she snaps her fingers. "Got it!" she says triumphantly. "Monsieur Enjolras – he's one of Monsieur Marius' friends. The other man would've been Monsieur Courfeyrac if he didn't have spectacles and Monsieur Combeferre if he did."

"Monsieur Courfeyrac, then," Victoire confirms. "Oh, what a nice gentleman!"

"Kind to us poor folk at any rate," Eponine corrects. "Not kind to all the grisettes and bourgeois girls who follow him around or so Monsieur Marius says."

"Well, seeing as I'm neither bourgeois nor grisette, maybe I'll have a chance," Victoire teases, yanking her friend's hand. "Get some clothes on, 'Ponine, we'll go and find some food."


	7. 6: Recognition

**April 1832**

"M'sieur, would you care for some company tonight?" a hoarse voice echoes out of the shadows as Courfeyrac walks briskly along the darkened side-street, a box of bullets and a bayonet concealed beneath his jacket. Sometimes he stops for ladies of the night, but tonight, he needs to get these bullets to Enjolras' apartment, and hide the bayonet he has acquired before he is stopped by the _gendarmes _for looking suspicious.

"M'sieur, please." The speaker steps out of the gloom, blocking his way, a pitifully determined expression plastered across her sunken face. Courfeyrac stops in shock.

"Don't I know you?" are the first words that spill out of his mouth as he stares at the streetwalker, taking in the long, unkempt red hair and green eyes that seem far too large and old for a girl her age.

"Why would a respectable student like yourself know a whore like me?" she steps to the side, wrapping her arm around her skinny waist, seemingly overcome by remorse that she held him up. Or trying to avoid being recognised. "I am sorry, _Monsieur. _I will not bother you."

Courfeyrac, still set on the fact that he's seen her before, notices the stiff way in which she holds her shoulder, the bruises across her face and neck. "You're hurt, _mademoiselle_," he says gently, approaching her like you would a wounded animal.

"I'm fine," she tries to back down an alley, but Courfeyrac lunges and catches hold of her arm. She squeaks in pain, recoiling and cradling the limb into her chest. He notices tears pooling in her eyes.

"You're not fine," he says firmly. "Come with me to my friend's garret – he's a medical student."

"I could not impose!" the girl protests. "No, _Monsieur, _there is nothing wrong with me."

"I insist," Courfeyrac makes sure the bullets are hidden in his pocket, and takes the arm she's not holding. The girl continues to resist as he starts to tow her along, taking no heed of her objections.

Anyone who would have seen them that night would have thought they made a strange pair – the tall, handsome student and the bedraggled little gamine, their shadows made large by the orange glow of the streetlamps.

Finally, after some fifteen minutes of walking, Courfeyrac draws to a halt before a green-painted door. The girl has, thankfully, ceased arguing, having fallen silent about five minutes into their journey. Now, she just stares in awe at the sturdily built, honey coloured tenement, her eyes wide as she takes in the curtains at the white-painted window frames, and the bronze bell at the side of the door.

Courfeyrac takes hold of the bell-pull and jangles it loudly, attracting the attention of the concierge inside, and causing her to open the door. "Oh, you again," the old woman grumbles, paying no heed to the now-shivering girl standing beside him. "They are upstairs."

"Thank you, _Madame,_" Courfeyrac flashes a white smile at her, before adjusting his grip on the bayonet in his jacket and the _gamine's _hand. Once inside, he takes the wooden stairs two at a time, barely noticing the neat cream-coloured paint on the walls and the shiny hand-rail. The girl, on the other hand, seems to be transfixed by the luxury around her – it is only the tug of Courfeyrac's hand on her bony wrist that keeps her moving.

On a wood-panelled landing at the top of the staircase are four doors – Courfeyrac stops in front of the first and knocks loudly. There is no reply, so he knocks again, before swearing under his breath. "_Merde._" Then he looks embarrassed. "I'm sorry _mademoiselle; _I shouldn't have said a word like that in front of a lady."

"I've heard worse," the girl replies quietly. "And I'm no lady, _Monsieur._"

"Every woman is a lady in the eyes of the Republic," he states firmly, closing the matter. "Now, as Combeferre's not in, he'll probably be at Julien's…" the girl's mouth falls open as he utters those words. He looks back at her to see the expression of surprise on her face, but as soon as she spies him watching her, she's snapped her mouth shut. _Strange girl, _he thinks to himself as he walks along to the end of the corridor, and leads her up yet another flight of stairs.


	8. 7: A Helping Hand

**A/N Okay, dudes, this is long because I won't be updating for a couple of weeks, as I have a dance show and will be rehearsing every evening for that, then on Friday next, I will be going to Greece with school and my best friend VivaLaVida1704. So this is it, I'm afraid, for a little while. Enjoy!**

* * *

_Is this house never-ending? _Victoire thinks as she follows the kind man, who she believes to be the Monsieur Courfeyrac who was with her benefactor two months ago; up the stairs. _I wonder what it would be like to live in such a place._ She stares at the black coated back of Courfeyrac. _And I hope 'Julien' isn't who I think he is…_

* * *

Courfeyrac stops in front of the last garret on the top floor, and knocks loudly, hearing the voices inside cease. "Coming!" the voice of his friend calls as Courfeyrac hears footsteps near the vicinity of the door. The said door swings open to reveal the younger man standing in the opening, his white shirt half unbuttoned and his cravat loose around his neck. "Courfeyrac," he says by way of greeting, before spotting the _gamine,_ who has turned as white as a sheet, and is trembling, her knees knocking together under her patched and tattered skirt. "Who's this?" his tone is one of mild interest. Then his marble forehead creases as he takes a second look at her, narrowing his eyes. "Don't I know you from somewhere, _mademoiselle_?"

"That's what I thought," Courfeyrac mumbles, feeling utterly perplexed that his friend seems to recognise her as well. "But she denied it."

The girl swallows and wraps her good arm around herself, still staring wide-eyed at Enjolras. "You…you gave me all that money, _Monsieur, _when…when I ran into you," she says haltingly.

Enjolras' expression clears. "Oh, yes, I remember now." Dismissing his random act of kindness, he turns to Courfeyrac. "What brings her here with you?"

"I was actually looking for Combeferre," the dark-haired man says slowly. "She's gone and hurt herself…" he exchanges a meaningful look with Enjolras before continuing, "I don't know how, but it looks bad…"

"Well, in that case, you'd better come in," Enjolras turns around and calls into the garret. "Combeferre, we've got visitors!"

Courfeyrac takes a hold of the girl's good shoulder, and steers her gently into his friend's messy living space.

* * *

"How did you do this, _mademoiselle_?" the gentle medical student asks her, his fingers carefully probing her swollen shoulder.

"A client bent my arm behind me and slammed me against a wall," she says with coarse honesty that shows she's relaxed around them, causing all three men to wince. "Ow!"

"I'm sorry," he apologises, continuing his examination of the tender skin. After a while, he looks up. "The good news is that you have no broken bones – it's just a sprain."

"The bad news?" Victoire wants to know what horrible treatment he will prescribe to make the arm get better.

"It will have to be in a sling for three weeks, which means you will have to be off the streets for at least three weeks, if not longer." Combeferre sighs. "Have you anywhere you can go?"

"Apart from the brothel I sometimes frequent, no," Victoire deals another measure of ruthless candour.

"Well…" he pauses for thought. "I'm sure…"

"She could stay here, if she wanted to," Enjolras interrupts. "I have the spare room."

Victoire stares at him again – this angelically beautiful young man willing to share his garret with a fine specimen of the scum of the streets? She shakes her head. "No, _Monsieur, _you can't. It is very kind of you, but I won't accept."

Courfeyrac, annoyed by her stubbornness, snaps, "You would if you knew what was good for you."

She flinches at his tone of voice, causing him to soften slightly, and come to kneel down beside her. "_Mademoiselle, _you need rest. You only have to stay here as long as your arm is healing, if that is what you want to do. We have done something for you, now do us a favour and stay here."

The girl caves, the longing for a warm bed and food coming before her pride. "Alright, _Messieurs, _I will stay."

"Thank you," Combeferre sighs, relief colouring his tone. "Now, Enjolras, do you have a shirt that you don't need anymore?"

"I'm sure I can find one," Enjolras walks purposely through the clutter of papers scattered around the garret, into one of two doors situated at the far end.

Courfeyrac turns back to the _gamine, _a cheeky smile now imprinted on his face. "As these things happen, we seem to have bumped into each other a couple times, and I have never had to opportunity to learn your name."

"Victoire," the girl replies, blushing at the attention.

"Victoire, now that's a pretty name. Means victory, if I'm not misunderstood," Combeferre says kindly. "Now, Courfeyrac, go and lose the essentials that you brought, then find something for Victoire to eat."

"Yes, _Monsieur le docteur,_" Courfeyrac teases, jumping up with youthful energy, and disappearing into the room that Enjolras went into. Combeferre sits next to Victoire on the divan.

"How old are you then?" he asks as he begins to examine the bruises on her neck and the cut on her temple that none of them had previously noticed.

"Eighteen, I think," Victoire says slowly. "I was born in the year before Waterloo, but I don't know my numbers very well, so I could never calculate it, _Monsieur. _I think my birthday is in June, as well, though again I don't know for certain. My sister, Émilie, she can read and write, but only because her husband is a clever working man, and taught her. Neither of them have time for me and André, though, so that's why we're on the streets." Like a flower deprived of sunshine, it seems that Victoire has been denied any real attention, and with a sympathetic ear, she seems perfectly happy to tell her life story.

"Ponine can read and write though, that's my best friend, she's far prettier and cleverer than me and she's in love with your friend, _Monsieur _Marius…" Combeferre thinks he sees a tinge of pink under the grime on her cheeks, "but I'm not sure I was supposed to tell you that." She trails off, embarrassed.

"It's alright," Combeferre says. "I won't tell anyone."

"Are you sure? I've never been good at keeping secrets, are you?"

"Yes," Combeferre closes the matter as Enjolras appears with a clean white shirt draped over his arm, Courfeyrac behind him, holding a chipped china plate with two slices of white bread in the centre of it.

"This was all I could find," he says, placing the plate on the edge of the divan. "_Someone_ doesn't have a stocked larder."

"I am too busy to go to the market," Enjolras counters, handing the shirt over to Combeferre, who looks at it.

"Enjolras, this is your only dress shirt – you need to find something older."

"I never wear it," the younger man responds. "It could at least go to good use in this cause."

"Nevertheless, your parents will be most put out if you visit them in your old tattered one, and I need something softer for the sling, anyway. You stay here; I'll go and find one."

Enjolras shrugs. "If you want to," before walking across the room, and entering the second doorway. Courfeyrac lounges back onto the divan next to Victoire after placing the plate of bread on her lap.

"Eat up," he says cheerfully. "You'll feel better once you've got some food in you."

Victoire doesn't need any more encouragement; she picks up one of the slices and stuffs it into her mouth, barely chewing before she swallows. Courfeyrac grimaces at her manners, but doesn't comment – he knows that the girl is half-starved; if he were in her place, he would forget all the table manners his bourgeoisie parents drummed into him as well.

* * *

After Combeferre has bound up the _gamine's _arm in a sling, and Enjolras has shown her into the spare room where his cousins sleep when they rarely come to stay, the three men sit down outside.

"Poor girl," Combeferre reflects sadly. "She told me that she was only eighteen – an eighteen-year-old resorting to that way of life to stay alive? What a waste of potential."

"She reminds us what we are fighting for," Enjolras says slowly. "She and the rest of the _abaisses,_ who are out there, cold, hungry and lonely on the streets."

Courfeyrac just sighs, before glancing at his pocket watch. "Damnation," he mutters.

"What?" Combeferre asks – Enjolras just tilts his head to one side with a questioning look on his face.

"I promised Amélie that I would be at hers for ten, and it's already past eleven," Courfeyrac stands up, shoving his hands into his coat pocket. "_Bonne nuit, mes amis. _I will see you tomorrow at the Musain."


	9. 8: Pianoforte

**A/N Sorry I haven't updated recently...the reasons for my lack of activity are stated in the previous chapter. But I've been dying to get back to this, and this is just a really short chapter, and I promise there will be a longer one within the next couple of days. Enjoy.**

* * *

The battered pianoforte sits under a dust cover in the very corner of _Monsieur _Enjolras' apartment, un-played and unloved. "Why is it hidden away?" Victoire asks him as he sits at his desk, flipping through a textbook and scribbling away on a piece of creased paper that he's extracted from the bottom of one of his piles of stationery.

He just makes a non-committal noise, ignoring the _gamine's _question, until she's standing at his shoulder. "What are you doing?" she pesters. "And why don't you play the pianoforte?"

"Please, Victoire," Enjolras fists his hand in his golden hair. "I have to study for these exams – if I don't pass them…"he trails off, turning another page and writing something else down.

"Do you want something to eat?" she asks, putting her now-clean hand on his shoulder. "No that's a silly question – you don't want anything to eat. I'll go and get you a glass of water and some bread, then, because you've been sitting there all day. Can I have some money for the market, because _Monsieur _Combeferre was going to take me there today, since you haven't got anything in your larder?"

"On the mantelpiece," he tells her, wondering why on earth he took her in the first place. _Because she needed help, _he reminds himself. _However annoying she is, she needed help and that's what you gave her. _


	10. 9: Apologies

**May 1832**

"Victoire?" Enjolras opens his apartment door, expecting to see the little gamine perched on his divan, puzzling over the letters he's been trying to teach her, or drawing on a piece of paper. But there's no one there. "Victoire," he calls out, feeling exasperated now. He doesn't have time for her silly little games that she sometimes insists on playing. "Where are you?"

Silence. Enjolras sighs – she's probably gone out to the market – and drops his case of lecture notes on the floor, walking over to his desk. His friends are doubtless celebrating the passage of bar exams – all of them passed, except Bossuet and Bahorel, which was quite expected, since neither of them showed any interest in turning up for lectures. He himself passed comfortably, and intends to become a proper advocate once the ever-simmering revolution eventually boils over.

He turns over a couple of plans on his desk, revealing a ragged piece of paper lying under them. Curious, he picks it up, looking closely at the nearly illegible, smudged word written there in Victoire's shaky hand.

_Sorry. _

* * *

"Bonjour, _Madame,_" Victoire says politely as she cautiously enters the wigmaker's shop, feeling ever so aware of her tatty apparel. Since fleeing _Monsieur _Enjolras' apartment two weeks ago, she's been feeling far too exposed, far too obvious with her fiery red hair colour. She's worried he's going to bump into her one day, and insist that she comes and lives back at his flat, gets off the streets again. But she can't accept anymore kindness – even if she wanted to. The debt would be too great to repay.

"What do you want?" the old woman snaps sourly, barely looking up from the elegant strawberry-blonde wig she is sewing.

"How much for my hair?" Victoire asks quietly. The old woman glances up, and scowls. "I know it's dirty," Victoire holds up a strand, "but it's the most beautiful colour – an intense red – and I see that you don't have many red wigs, and my friend says that red hair is all the rage at the moment…"

The crone stands up, dumping her work on the table and marching towards Victoire, who can't help but cringe back at her expression of disgust. She wraps a finger around a lock of Victoire's hair, tugs the girl towards the window. "Very red," she mutters. "Good colour. But horrible condition, very dry."

"Please, _Madame,_" Victoire begs, feeling close to tears. "I don't have anything else to sell." _I've already sunk to the bottom of the heap, _she thinks to herself.

"I'll take it," the wigmaker says. "But you need that lot washed, and I'm taking money off for that."

"Oh, thank you, thank you!" Victoire barely hears the words, only knowing that she won't have to work the street corners tonight.

"Get over here, girl," the woman snaps. "I haven't got all day."

* * *

Cheated. That's how she feels. Just as the old woman had finished chopping Victoire's flame-coloured locks, a grand bourgeois woman with the most beautiful green silk gown had swept into the shop, her mousy hair piled in a mass of curls on the top of her head. Determined that the quality customer should not see the dirty, bruised street-urchin in the shop, the wigmaker had shoved a franc and three sous into Victoire's hand, and ushered her out of the back door. What is worse for Victoire is that she heard the bourgeois lady offer twenty five francs for Victoire's own hair! Victoire seethes with anger as she walks down one of the back alleys, back towards her usual haunts. The audacity of that woman, to cheat her of her money when Victoire's hair was just the colour that would sell.

Miserable, now, Victoire doesn't realise that Eponine has fallen into step beside her. "_Merde, _Victoire, what have you done?" is the first thing her friend says, her tone one of utter shock.

"I cut off all my hair, what does it look like?" Victoire retorts. "And got cheated by that hag in the shop!" Stopping and turning to face the younger girl, she instantly regrets her harsh words. There are tearstains down the brunette's cheeks, red rings around her eyes and a slap mark on her dirty skin. "Eponine, what's happened?"

"_Pere, _he…he…" a tear trickles out of the corner of her eye. "He…gave me to 'Parnasse. It hurt Victoire, it hurt so much, and when I hit him, he slapped me and told me I was a…a…bitch, and not worth the money he had paid!"

"Oh…Eponine," Victoire can't think of anything to comfort her now-weeping best friend – instead, pulls her into a tight embrace. "I'm sorry, so sorry. It's awful the first time, and I can't say it gets any better."

"But…Monsieur Marius…" the girl whispers against Victoire's shoulder. "I'm no longer pure, no longer clean, not like his _beloved _Cosette! How will I ever prove to him…?"

"'Ponine, he's in love with this other girl – he's not suddenly going to change his mind," Victoire tries to be reasonable with Eponine, but to no avail. The other girl just doesn't want to listen.

"No, Victoire, he's just infatuated with Cosette, and I'm being silly," Eponine says firmly, pulling away and wiping her eyes. "If he truly comes to love me, then he won't care, will he?"

"If…" Victoire leaves the end of the sentence dangling. The girl is deluding herself. "Come on, let's go and find Gavroche and André – who knows what sort of trouble they've got themselves into now."


	11. 10: The Barricade

**Enjoy!**

* * *

**5****th**** of June, 1832**

He looks around him with feverish excitement, watching as Pontmercy hands out guns, Courfeyrac bounds around exuberantly, distributing ammunition, and Joly prepares his workspace inside the café. It is everything he dreamed about, this revolution, everything he planned, everything he wanted. His scouts tell him that there are more barricades all over the winding alleys of Les Halles, and that the National Guard are scattered in panic. He knows, though, it won't be long before army gets itself together, forms a plan, and marches on them. And they must be ready.

* * *

_Monsieur _Enjolras' barricade is a sight to behold, Victoire thinks to herself as she grabs another barrel, hands it on to the student who is fortifying the organised pile of broken pianofortes, handcarts, tables, chairs, coffins. The red flag flutters in the wind, from where it is held against a broken cartwheel, and the defenders are ready for whatever comes, laughing and smiling, cracking jokes and drinking alcohol. _Monsieur _Enjolras is in the middle of it all, a faint smile etched on his face as he oversees this thing which he has been planning for months. It makes her smile to know that the rough drafts on paper which she found drifting around his apartment look twenty times as good when they are made reality, blocking the street, and causing havoc to what started out as a fairly normal, Parisian day. It feels good to have order turned upside down for once, to have _gamins _like Gavroche (who is here, no matter how hard the students have tried to get him to go away) ordering around working men, and working men ordering around the students. It feels good to see so many people fighting on the behalf of her kind, _les abaisses _she once heard _Monsieur _Enjolras call them. It feels good to know that people care.


	12. 11: Of Rain and Grief

**Still June 5****th****, 1832**

Eponine and Victoire huddle against the side of the barricade, trying to shield themselves from the rain of death as they attempt to load the smoking guns thrown down to them by the desperate students. Victoire has never been so terrified in her entire life, terrified of injury, of pain, of death – under her breath she mutters prayers to God, and the Lord Jesus, and the Virgin Mary, these being the only deities she can remember. Eponine, on the other hand is a mask of calm – the only thing that gives away her fear is the fact that her hands are trembling almost too much to load the guns. And Eponine's fear is more likely for _Monsieur _Marius' safety than her own.

There's a scream from the top of the barricade, "They're coming over the top! They're coming over the top!" and all of a sudden, men are jumping down from the mound of rubble, taking up stands against the walls of the café, snatching the guns from Victoire as she cowers against the wooden wall. Briefly, she catches a glimpse of _Monsieur _Marius running back up the barricade through the smoke, but, unlike the selfless Eponine, she's more concerned for her own life then the life of her best friend's love.

A youthful voice breaks through the melee. "Marius, what are you doing?" Gavroche. In an instant, Eponine has left the two girls' hiding place and is scrabbling up the barricade, Victoire holds her breath, heart beating erratically and sinks to the floor in a small huddle as the boy's voice cries out, "Marius, no!"

There is a gunshot, and then silence. "Clear out or I'll blow the barricade!" _Monsieur _Marius. In the hush, Victoire dares to crawl out of her hiding place, across to the wall of the Café Musain. She can't see Eponine anywhere; this frightens her even more. Where is the wretched girl?

In looking for Eponine, she doesn't take heed of the rest of the confrontation between _Monsieur _Marius, and the National Guardsman, doesn't pay attention to the sound of the fleeing army, or the cheers that ring out from the barricade. She's survived this time, along with all the student rebels, but she can't find Eponine…and considering that the girl is prone to rash acts of bravery…no, she will not think about that. She won't even consider it. Surely Eponine knows the value of her life; knows when to draw the line between selflessness and foolishness?_ The worst thing, _Victoire thinks, _is that I don't think Eponine does._

* * *

He stops in front of the boy crouched by the wall of the Musain. "Are you alright, boy?" he asks, still trying to calm his adrenaline rush from the battle. The boy looks up with wide green eyes, the cap falling off his head to reveal an ear-length shock of bright red hair. Enjolras feels like he's been hit with an omnibus.

"Victoire, what the hell are you doing here?" now is no time to be polite he feels as he roughly drags the girl to her feet.

She cringes away from his harsh tone of voice, her hands coming up to protect her face. Enjolras feels a stab of remorse, and lets go of her sleeve. He knows he did the wrong thing, acting in a moment of shocked anger. But he has a right to be angry. The girl disappears from his flat with no trace of where she's gone, and she turns up here, of all places. The one place that she is most likely to get killed…he won't even let himself imagine the thought. Whilst she was staying with him, he grew to tolerate the strange little gamine with all her odd ideas, even to like her as an acquaintance…or a friend. _And friends don't like the thought of each other dying; _he tries to justify his out-of-control thoughts.

"I…I…I'm with Eponine," the girl looks close to tears. "I can't find her, because she ran out in the middle of the battle, and I'm scared, _Monsieur, _so scared…"

"You don't have to be scared much longer, because you're leaving," Enjolras tells her firmly.

"I'm not leaving without Eponine," the girl folds her arms stubbornly, even though her lower lip trembles.

"I wasn't intending for Eponine to stay and you to go," Enjolras says, aware that he doesn't even know who Eponine is. A friend, or a sister of Victoire, most likely. "Come on."

He leads her across the main paved area behind the barricade, past men who are busy re-fortifying it with paving slabs torn up from the alleys and more barrels from one of the cellars. The rest of the men are lounging around, talking quietly among themselves, and nursing minor injuries. It has begun to rain.

"Enjolras!" the hissed voice comes from a side corner of the barricade, barely visible from the main section. _Monsieur _Courfeyrac appears from behind it, his face set in a grim expression – Victoire can hear voices from behind it.

"There's nothing we can do," he murmurs. "The girl won't let anyone save Marius near her. Poor thing."

"What girl?" Victoire demands, her heart sinking with every word that is spoken.

"Marius' shadow," Courfeyrac doesn't get further before Victoire is on the move, trying to get into the little nook of the barricade. Enjolras catches her around the waist as she bursts into tears, sinking to the ground.

"Ponine, Ponine, Ponine," she sobs, clutching at her tattered skirt with her hands as the rain soaks her short hair and washes the dirt from her face. "Ponine, no, no, no, no!"

Enjolras crouches down beside her, at a nod from Courfeyrac carefully puts his arms around her so she can cry on his shoulder. It's the closest he's ever been to a member of the opposite sex before; he can feel her breath on his face, feel her shoulders shaking with her uncontrollable weeping, her small, warm body pressed against his. "There, there," he strokes her hair away from her face awkwardly, wondering how he should even attempt going about comforting her. How does one comfort when another has lost a close friend? He doesn't know, but he has an awful feeling that he'll find out soon.

* * *

**A/N Okay, I found this chapter quite hard to write, and I'm still not totally sure about it, but please let me know if it's okay or not! :) **


	13. 12:Sent Away

He watches her leave, her cap pulled firmly down over her short hair and tearstained face. "She'll be alright," a voice says quietly at his ear. He turns to see Combeferre leaning on the butt of his musket, observing as Enjolras watches Victoire round a bend in the Rue des Prêcheurs.

"Yes, now that she's away from here," he says distractedly. "We already have the blood of one innocent on our hands…" trailing off, he looks to the older man, who sighs quietly.

"You couldn't have done anything to save her," Combeferre says gently. "We were all fighting, and there was so much smoke…" he pauses. "She died happy, though."

"Pontmercy has been a blind fool all this time," Enjolras says, looking over to where the younger man is sitting with his head in his hands, the letter Eponine brought held tightly in one of his clenched fists.

"It isn't his fault," Combeferre reasons. "How could he have known? She did a good job of hiding it."

"You knew her?" Enjolras asks, somewhat surprised.

"Yes, yes, I did. She often came to the Musain – though she was very well disguised, you could never have told she was a girl if you didn't know."

Enjolras pulls a face, but says nothing; picking up his carbine, he walks back towards the Café, Combeferre trailing behind him.

* * *

She settles down for the night in an abandoned doorway, pulling her boy's coat closer around her emaciated frame and wondering how the men…no, _boys, _at the barricade are coping. If they're even still alive. She shudders at the thought. But no, they're stronger than that…they will win this fight. They have to, don't they?

* * *

From his perch at the top of the barricade, he watches as his friends settle down to pass the night – some sitting around the torch, others lying on the pallets they found in the Café's upper floors. He can see the ropes where the spy, Javert, was held before he was killed by the strange old man who came to join their cause and the pallet where the frail, white body of Eponine lies, covered in a blanket.

He looks at the stars shining so bright above his head, and wishes that it didn't have to come to this – that there didn't have to be so much bloodshed for the world to be a better place. Wishes that for once, men overlooked greed and selfishness, and extended a hand to those in need, to help and protect them, their brothers and sisters. But he knows it won't happen – can't happen – until there is free right for everyone, and a king no longer sits on the throne of France.

Unwittingly, his thoughts slowly turn to another person, hoping that wherever she is that she's safe. He remembers the warmth of her body against his as she sobbed on his shoulder, the wideness of her green eyes, the way her red hair fell unruly about her ears…

Sharply, he jerks his thoughts back into order, staring down the deserted street in front of him. _You should be concerned with what tomorrow brings, _he chides himself, clenching his carbine ever tighter. _Patria is what matters now. _

* * *

**A/N Sorry this has been a while and is quite a non-happening chapter...stuff will happen next, I absolutely promise! Reviews are very welcome! :)**


	14. 13: Blood Red Dawn

She creeps along the street in the red light of the new dawn. There is no sound, none at all from the barricade at the end of the street, except the cheeping of a sparrow. The doors and windows are tightly closed, there is no-one about. They must all still be asleep or…or…

She stops dead, her heart almost ceasing to beat. Hands fly to her mouth to stop her scream of shock and horror. The barricade…no, what is left of the barricade…is…is…_This is impossible, _her hysterical thoughts are whizzing out of control – it's all she can do to stop herself from fainting. _It was so strong last night…and…and…_she turns and vomits into the entrance of the alleyway, falling to her knees. _They can't be all dead, they can't! Not kind Monsieur Combeferre, or Monsieur Enjolras or Monsieur Courfeyrac…how could they be dead, young men who were so full of life just hours ago? Maybe I'm dreaming…please let this be a horrible dream…please…please…_

With an immense struggle, she pulls herself together, slowly getting to her feet. Fresh tears streak down her face as she haltingly enters what was once a formidable stronghold. Bodies are strewn everywhere, grimaces of agony spread over red and white faces, blood-stained puddles pooling on the paving stones. She wills herself not to throw up again as she picks her way among the dead, stopping to close their glassy eyes.

Finally, she comes across _Monsieur _Courfeyrac's body, spread across a barrel at the bottom of the crumbled wall of the Café. His eyes are already closed, and he could be sleeping, save for the fact that his normally immaculate white shirt is drenched in his lifeblood. Her wavering resolve threatens to break at the sight of such a kind man reduced to this, but she does not stop. She has to know about one person in particular – her fevered desire to know his fate even scares her.

She scrapes her hands as she scrambles up the pile of rubble that once stood tall, cutting her knee on a piece of glass as she reaches the top. She freezes at the sight. Dead National Guardsmen litter the streets, their red and blue uniforms merging together to create a whirl of colour. Victoire utters an unsteady laugh – she knew _Les Amis _wouldn't go down without a fight, in which they'd take twice as many soldiers down as themselves.

A soft groan pierces the still air, and Victoire starts, looking down at the person below her feet. Blonde hair matted with blood, a red flag clutched in his hand. Too pale to be alive, but there's nowhere else the sound could have come from.

In a flash, Victoire is down the barricade, kneeling next to him. His chest rises and falls very faintly, and blood bubbles out of the corner of his mouth with every breath. "M'sieur, M'sieur," she says quietly. "M'sieur, can you hear me? M'sieur _please_, what do I do? Dear God, what do I do?"

His eyelids flutter very slightly open at the sound of her voice. "What…" he croaks.

"It's alright, it's alright," Victoire says. Although she is trying to calm him, the desperation in her tone clearly shows. "It's alright, I'm here. I'm taking you to a doctor. Just hang on. Please. For me."

His cornflower-blue eyes lock onto hers as she laces her arms around him, trying to get him in a sitting position. He grits his teeth in agony. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," she cries. "But if I don't…"

He grips her arm tightly, and she stares at him with wide green eyes. "Leave me…" he gets out. "Now." Then his eyes roll back into his head and his body crumples into her arms. That's when she hears the sound of marching feet.

* * *

**A/N I'm updating a lot now because I will have to put this to a backseat in a few weeks to work on something for my Dad's birthday...so, you're getting a load of updates now because I have the muse! R&R very appreciated.**


	15. 14: No Respect

She barely gets to the alleyway in time, dragging Enjolras' limp body behind her as the soldiers of the National Guard swarm across the ruins, picking up the bodies and throwing them on a cart. _No respect for the dead, _Victoire thinks, fighting back another wave of sorrow.

When she can stand the scene no longer, she hoists Enjolras' arm around her neck, and slowly starts to move down the narrow street, her cut knee screaming with each step. He's taller than her, and heavier, and it isn't long before she starts seeing spots at the edges of her vision, and has to lay him down.

"You are not going to faint, Victoire Éléonore Roux," she says fiercely to herself, sliding into a sitting position. "You are not, d'you hear me?"

It takes all day to cross the city – a whole day of walking a few streets, then resting, staying out of sight of the _gendarmes. _But Victoire is determined, and by the time she reaches the physician's house, it is only just becoming dark.

The street is deserted, so Victoire, with the last of her strength, drags Enjolras up the steps. Hammers at the door.

It is opened by a middle-aged woman, with her hair severely tied back and a black dress on – catching sight of Victoire, her mouth falls open. "Please, _Madame,_" Victoire says quickly, her tone scared. "He's hurt, and I don't know what to do, and I've crossed the entire city to get here since this house is the only doctor I know and please…" She is well aware of the horrific sight she makes – tatty boys' clothes, drenched in blood, eyes fierce and wild. It's no wonder the woman looks horrified at the very sight of her.

"We don't accept insurgents here," the woman says sharply, glancing up and down the street in trepidation. She starts to close the door, but Victoire puts her foot in the gap, keeping it open.

"Please," she whispers. "I've already seen my other friends die and…he's…he's…" inspiration comes to her like a flash of lightening. "He's my fiancé."

**A/N Cliffhanger! Do you like it?**


	16. 15: In God's Hands

**A/N **I'm so sorry I haven't updated in so long, I've had exams and have had to revise. But they're all over now, so I can write more, and I'll probably finish this over the summer. Reviews make me smile!

* * *

For all her dowdy appearance, Evangeline Picard adores a love story. And so that's why, after another furtive glance up and down the street, she helps the girl lift her fiancé into the hallway, carrying him through into the kitchen where they lay him down on the table.

"I will fetch my husband," she says, pulling together a smile for the girl, who has seated herself next to the young man, holding his hand, looking tragic.

"Thank you, _Madame,_" Victoire says softly, staring at _Monsieur _Enjolras' still form. _Please, hang on, _she wills him. _For me. _

* * *

The woman reappears with the doctor less than a minute later; he takes one look at the injured young man and mutters a curse under his breath. "Take the young lady upstairs, and clean her up, Evangeline," he orders his wife as he pulls his _tourniquet _up onto one of the chairs.

"I don't want to leave him, _Monsieur,_" Victoire tries to protest, but the doctor is having none of it.

"I will have to strip him of his clothing to get to the bullet wounds, and that is not something a young lady, even a man's fiancée, should see, _Mademoiselle,_" he says firmly. "Go with my wife, if you will."

Victoire concedes defeat, and follows the woman out of the kitchen, and up a wooden flight of stairs, into a bedroom with a fire glowing warmly in the hearth. "Will he be alright?" she asks, her voice sounding young and scared.

"He's in God's hands, now," Evangeline sighs.


	17. 16: Lamentations

**A/N **Sorry it's been so long, guys, I've had exams and things just got out of hand. I hope you like this!

* * *

The doctor spends three hours locked away in the kitchen with his patient. Three hours of Victoire, forced into a bath and now wearing one of Evangeline's daughter's dresses, sitting and waiting and hoping.

Finally, the doctor re-appears at the top of the stairs, his calm but tired mask betraying nothing. "You may come down now, _Mademoiselle_," he says quietly.

Victoire hurries down the wooden stairs after him, holding her burgundy skirts out of the way with her now clean hand. "How is he? Did you manage to save him?" she fires questions at the doctor as he holds open the kitchen door for her.

"I won't lie, _mademoiselle. _He's lost a lot of blood – has eight bullet wounds and several broken ribs, and there's a chance he might not make it," the doctor pinches the bridge of his nose, as if to ward off a headache.

"Thank you," Victoire whispers, so quietly that the doctor almost misses it. With a small smile, she settles herself back on a chair, taking up _Monsieur _Enjolras' hand again. Circling her thumb over the back of his hand, she stares down at his prone form. Only hours ago, he was making a speech to his comrades at the barricade.

Only hours ago, he was fighting for his life, for his cause. For his friends. And now they're gone, gone onto a better place. Victoire hasn't allowed herself to cry, yet, has forced herself to remain strong, to keep moving.

But now, she's safe, and with safety comes a pang of grief so great that she almost doubles over, the tears streaming down her face as she clutches his limp hand. Eponine. _Monsieur _Combeferre. _Monsieur _Courfeyrac. Gavroche. All of the boys at the barricade. She weeps for them, for the cause that was shattered as easily as a glass windowpane.

She weeps for Enjolras, who will confronted with his friends' demise the second he opens his eyes. She weeps for the wives, the children, the parents, who will never see their loving husbands, fathers or sons again.

And most of all, she weeps for the people of France, who will _never_ see a better tomorrow.

* * *

He sleeps, undisturbed for three days. But as the birds herald the morning of the fourth, his eyes slowly flutter open. He feels soft linen sheets beneath his body, a pillow under his head, and a hand clasped loosely in one of his.

Wherever he is, he's surely not dead. This can't be what death feels like.

"_Monsieur_?" a soft voice fills the quiet of the room. He blinks, trying to make out the blurry oval hovering above him. A face. "You're awake." The tone of her, for it is a girl, voice is wondering, almost happy. He blinks again, and she swims into view.

A pale face, dotted with freckles, and short red hair falling unruly about her ears. Wide green eyes stare into his own. _Victoire. _"What…what are you doing here?" he croaks out. "I thought I told you to leave…"

"We're not at the barricade, _Monsieur,_" she says, softly.

"Then why are you here, unless…unless you're dead?" thoughts whirl around in his mind, he can't seem to think straight.

"Neither you nor I are dead, _Monsieur. _We're at the _docteur's _house. _Docteur _Picard. He's the only one I know, so I brought you here," he detects a faint note of pride in her voice.

"Where are my friends? What happened to the barricade?" he tries to sit up, to prop himself up on his elbows, but his body is having none of that, and he collapses back against the pillows.

"Don't try and move," a crease appears between Victoire's eyebrows.

"My friends…" his voice is a mere whisper.

Victoire drops her gaze.

"They're dead, aren't they?" his head is spinning again, and his heart is heavy in his chest. _It's his fault._

"I'm sorry," Victoire bites her lip, stares at her hands, afraid of what she'll find if she looks into his eyes.

"My friends," he says again, feeling a tear roll down his cheek. "Oh my friends."

Victoire can't bear seeing him like this, can't bear it. She gently reaches out, moves the hair back from his face. "I'll go and get the doctor," she says, softly. He doesn't hear her, doesn't move.

At the door, she looks back over her shoulder, feels tears well in her own eyes again. "I'm sorry," she repeats, as she leaves the room. "I'm sorry."


End file.
